Puella Magi Burial Ground
by andyjay18
Summary: The origins of the Micmac burial ground's curse. Moved from the Madoka Magica section.
1. Chapter 1

_Broadcast before a live studio audience inside my head._

_Anybody got any Advil?_

_Also, if you've never read _Pet Sematary_ before reading this story, I might suggest you do so first._

_Indians scattered on a dawn's highway bleeding_

_Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind._

The Doors, "Peace Frog"

_Maine, 1684_

After Round Flower and her tribe had finished burying her only child, she asked to stay by the grave alone for a while. Like the rest of the tribal cemetery, it lay on a high, barren mountain. The ground was almost solid rock, and thus digging was quite difficult, but with its high location, the soft sigh of the wind through the trees and around the burial cairns was almost constant. If one listened hard enough, as the tribal elders had always said, one could hear the voice of their deceased loved one calling to them. That was why they always used this challenging location to bury their dead.

Her eyes, still moist and red-rimmed, tracked across the seemingly boundless woods and rolling hills, mottled here and there with the shadows of passing late-spring clouds. This land of her people, the Micmac, still looked much as it did when she was a little girl, and as it had when her parents were her age. The sun still rose and set, the seasons still came and went, the fields still offered their crops, the bushes still bore berries, and the forests still abounded with game and the waters with fish. And yet the world around her was starting to change.

The pale people were starting to arrive in greater numbers in their strange oversized, gaudy clothing, in their huge wooden canoes supposedly from across the Great Water, with their large deer that they rode on, slovenly ways…and their terrifying "fire stick" weapons which could supposedly make part of a person's body burst. They were not wholly unfamiliar to her people, but back in her grandparents' time, so her parents had said, they had only stayed temporarily, mainly to trade with them or in a few cases tell them about their god (for some reason).

But it also seemed that wherever the pale people had been, even for a short while, sickness would cut through the tribes like wildfire. Horrible sicknesses unlike anything they had ever seen, which would cause one's body to inflame with pus-oozing rashes, with an agonizing death often following. None of the traditional herbs or even the shamans' strongest spells could save the victims. Entire cities of the Pennacook, Massachusett and Narragansett tribes to the south had been wiped out, and the pale people had supposedly almost replaced their numbers in those areas. The few remaining natives were forced to live the pale peoples' lifestyle, including wearing their floppy, uncomfortable clothing and even praying to the pale peoples' god. In fact, the pale people had actually stated that the sicknesses that had decimated the natives' numbers was the result of the pale god's punishment for not worshipping him (even though they had never known of him before).

For the moment this land still seemed to belong to the Micmac, but for how much longer? The nearest large settlement of the pale people was at Casco Bay about a two-day canoe ride away, but Round Flower's people were already starting to feel the effects. Three people had died of the mysterious sickness since spring had begun. One of them was her son.

And now, with her husband killed while serving in the _sachem_ Metacom's uprising against the pale people, she was alone. Yes, her parents were still alive, as were several of her and her husband's relatives and her friends. The village elders and shaman said they would always be there for any further spiritual counseling or comfort. But this crushing grief… When Round Flower was told that her husband was dead, it felt like half of her heart had been torn from her body. When her son breathed his last, the second half had been ripped away.

One more horrible vision of that day flashed before her eyes; his little body covered in oozing brown hives, his sunken eyes rolling back into oblivion, his grip on her hand weakening before failing entirely. Once more Round Flower sank to her knees on the stony ground, weeping into her hands. No warrior could ever hope to be as merciless as grief, not even carrying one of those "fire sticks". If only there was some way to get at least one of them back…

Of course, she couldn't allow herself to think too strongly about that, could she? Every Micmac child had learned at their parents' or grandparents' knees about the Wendigo, the all-consuming, ever-hungry cannibal monster of the woods that was the fount of all unattainable, unspeakable desires…

_I just wish I could have my son back…_

"Rooooound Floooooowerrr…"

At first she thought it was just the wind, or was her late son actually calling out to her? Then she heard a high, thin voice call out her name louder, and right behind her. She turned around.

There sat a strange white creature that somewhat resembled a weasel. However, it also had a fox's large, bushy tail, and what seemed to be a second pair of ears with pink frills at the bottom. But most unsettling was its face. Its mouth had the fixed "smile" of a bobcat, and above this was a pair of red eyes. They had no pupils, and seemed to stare right through her—and at the same time directly into her.

"Greetings," echoed that high voice inside her head, somewhat louder than her thoughts usually were. The creature's jaws did not move. "Do you have a wish to make?"

Round Flower scooted back against the cairn; the bitterness of grief suddenly washed from her mind. "Wh-who are you?" she gasped. "How did you know my name?"

The creature cocked its head slightly without changing its expression. "Call me…Qubeg. I have been watching your recent plight. I have come from the heavens to grant your wishes and fulfill your destiny."

"My…destiny?" Could this really be happening? As far as she could remember, not even the shaman in her grandparents' time had ever had a face-to-face contact with the gods. Of course, even in these trying times, no other woman in her village had lost both a child _and_ a husband… Could the gods actually be favoring her in her situation? "And how can you fulfill my wishes?"

"I know you recently lost your son to the pale peoples' sickness," Qubeg said. "And of course your husband was killed by them during Metacom's uprising. I can see you are quite upset. But there is something you can do. Would you like to…see one of them again?"

Round Flower's eyes widened. "How can such a thing be possible?"

"Make an agreement with me to become a Magical Warrior," Qubeg replied. "You will be able to help your people in the greatest possible way; fighting the demons and Witches that are responsible for the spread of sickness and despair throughout the world—and have also led the palefaces to your country. Then I shall grant your wish."

Was it her imagination or had Qubeg moved closer to her? Its ghostly white face and those flat, emotionless eyes-like shark eyes, doll eyes- filled her vision and reached down into her soul. Yet…she wasn't scared. She was intrigued…and slightly comforted. Would she truly be able to see her son again? And could she put a stop to these palefaces encroaching upon her land, and avenge her fallen husband?

"Yes," Round Flower said. "Yes! If these Witches and demons took my son and my husband, then I shall gladly destroy them!"

"Excellent," said Qubeg. "Now, what is your wish?"

Round Flower paused for a few moments. Could this creature really resurrect the dead? It looked so small and weak…could it actually reach into the afterworld, retrieve a lost soul, and place it back into the body like an arrow into a quiver? Could it restore the body? Her husband had been dead for six years now; nothing would remain of his body but bones. But her son… When the last handful of stony dirt had been laid over his face, he still looked like he was just sleeping. Besides, at least her husband had reached his potential as a proud, strong, able man, and had given himself to a great cause. Her poor son, meanwhile, had perished before his bud could even come into full bloom. He hadn't had the time to realize his full potential. It wasn't right. It wasn't just.

And now she had the chance to become a warrior of justice.

"I wish to raise my son, Little Bear, from the dead!"

"Very well then," Qubeg said. It raised its right front paw, and all of a sudden a blinding white light surrounded them both. A strange hot, stinging pain flared in the center of her chest, and she had the sudden sensation of something leaving her body, but those feelings were quickly gone. Her body was surrounded by a strange, whirling wind, and against this and the harsh light, she shut her eyes. But after only a few more beats of her heart, the wind had died down.

Round Flower reopened her eyes. Her normal buckskin dress had been replaced by a strange black ensemble with white trim that looked more like paleface clothing—except the few times she had paleface women, when they stopped by her village to trade, she hadn't seen any dressed with the hems reaching only halfway to their knees. Even the moccasins on her feet were now replaced by black, white-trimmed footwear that looked much more like that of the palefaces than her own—and for some reason reached halfway to her knees. Then she noticed a certain weight around her neck, and glanced downward.

A glowing purple stone, encased in golden plates, hung from a beaded cord around her neck.

"W-what have you done with my clothes?" she gasped. "And what's this stone around my neck?"

Qubeg lifted its right front paw and pointed upward as a human would do. "That is your Spirit Stone. It's the source of your power as a Magical Warrior. Now, whenever you kill a Witch, you must collect a Grief Seed—the source of its power—and use it to recharge your Spirit Stone. Then you shall gain greater powers, and be able to fight more Witches and their protectors, the Demons."

Resolve once more began growing in Round Flower's mind. "And the palefaces are in league with these Witches and Demons, aren't they?"

"Yes, of course."

Her brow furrowed. "Then I am ready." Suddenly a huge, bone-white bow, studded with sparkling, colorful stones, manifested in her right hand. A quiver filled with sparkling arrows appeared over her left shoulder. But before any more thoughts of vengeance flowed into her mind, she looked behind her.

Her son's gravesite cairn still sat there, all the rocks in place. Wind continued whistling through the cracks in those rocks.

"I wished for my son to rise," she said.

"First you must destroy a Witch," Qubeg answered. "There is one at an abandoned paleface farm not far away. If you leave now, you will be able to return to your village by sunset. And then your son shall greet you."

Round Flower stood up, clutching her new bow. A strange, hot energy coursed through her body. Any of those little voices expressing fear of her possible demise in battle were quickly silenced. Was this how her husband had felt when he went off to fight?

She addressed her husband. "Great Bear, this is for you."

Round Flower was somewhat daunted at first by the sight of her first foe. This was not some mere human sorceress, but a spirit-monster. Its lair was the burned-out remains of a paleface longhouse, which may have been the one some braves of her village said they had destroyed sometime last fall. Its appearance flickered and morphed back and forth between that of a feathery native headdress and one of those wide-brimmed, buckled hats the paleface menfolk often wore, and she felt somewhat nauseous just looking at it. It constantly uttered piercing cries which she could only _vaguely_ describe as somewhere between a wildcat's howl and a human scream.

But while it initially fired a few volleys of fire-sticks at her (not the death-stones that shot out of the fire-sticks, but the actual sticks themselves), the Witch did not seem to have much fight in it. Round Flower quickly dodged a fire-stick coming her way, placed an arrow in her bow, and fired. A hollow roar like distant thunder came as she made a direct hit. The shrieking gave way to a pathetic gurgling as the Witch's form seemed to collapse in on itself.

"That was for my husband, my child, and my people, Witch!" Round Flower shouted. "I am a warrior of justice! I will remove _all_ of you from our land!"

A strong breeze suddenly began flowing through the abandoned paleface farm. It seemed to form words in Round Flower's ears, in the Micmac language despite the Witch's half-paleface appearance.

"Gloat now, little Native _Puella_. But as I am now, so shall you be, soon enough." And then, with the snap of a pinecone exploding in a fire, the Witch finally imploded, and a small object flew through the air to land at her feet. It was a black stone, also encased in golden plating.

Round Flower frowned. She had actually been hoping for a fierce battle to the death. But in this case, it reminded her of fending off an elderly or injured bear or moose, and giving the killing blow to a formerly dangerous beast with no more fight left in it. Something that _wanted_ to die.

But she didn't want to dwell on that. She had her first Grief Seed. And daylight was starting to fade. Her son would soon return.

The scattered clouds had turned a dark pink against a deepening mauve sky when Round Flower returned to her village. She could smell a deer roasting on the cooking fire and smiled at the thought of a reward for perhaps the most difficult day of her life. The village looked exactly the same as it had throughout her life, with some people sitting in front of their wigwams carving arrowheads, some just chatting, and some of the children gamboling about. And yet…something felt different.

A village dog sitting next to a man carving an arrowhead glanced up toward her and then suddenly backed away whining, its tail between its legs. The man's gaze followed the dog's, and his face recoiled.

"Wh-who _are _you?" he sputtered.

"I'm Round Flower," answered the young woman. "D-don't you recog…" Then her eyes trailed down to her rather strange clothing. Of course. It still seemed strange to her; what would her people think?

"B-but your clothing… When we last saw you, you were still at the burial ground grieving. When did you change into _those_ clothes? They look…almost like _paleface_ clothes!"

"And what is that glowing stone around your neck?" It was her father.

All of a sudden all the eyes of the village were upon Round Flower. "Please, let me explain!" she began. "I know it seems odd, but…" She took a deep breath. "A strange creature appeared before me at the burial ground. It gave me these clothes and this stone, and told me I am now a Magical Warrior." A nervous smile grew on her face. "I will now fight the Witches and Demons that are spreading despair and sickness among us, and that are leading the palefaces into our land! I can help save our people! And the creature also said he would raise my son from the dead!"

Her father flinched. "My daughter…what have you done? Do you know what kind of things you've become involved with? Such matters are strictly the domain of the gods! Not even a shaman can raise the dead…"

His lecture and the nervous chattering of the rest of the tribe were silenced by a smell drifting into the village, a stench. The reek of exposed tidal flats, of rotting flesh.

A seven-year-old boy was shambling his way into the village. His dark hair, ears and even nostrils were filled with dark earth which slid down from his head and onto his dirt-matted buckskin clothes and the ground with minute clicking sounds. But despite his youth, he walked like a very old man or a drunk, placing one leg far in front of his body, then dragging the rest of himself along as though he were partially paralyzed. With each step, he swayed almost to the ground.

His face was still pocked with the lingering scars and rash of the fatal sickness, despite the fact that his skin was deathly pale. As pale as a corpse…or that creature back at the burial ground. But that was far from the worst thing about his face. His eyes still seemed to have their youthful keenness, but they darted to and fro, never seeming to focus on a single object…as if there were something else _behind_ them. But the worst part was the smile. It reached nearly from ear to ear, but it wasn't a human smile.

And the stench roiled off his body like smoke.

Nevertheless, Round Flower knelt to the ground and opened her arms. There might be some…imperfections (whoever thought _raising the dead_ would be easy?) but he was still her Little Bear, her only son. Her wish had been fulfilled.

The boy didn't come to her. "Good evening, my people," he said in a slightly cracked version of his actual voice. "You're all gonna die. You'll never be able to stop the palefaces. They're going to come here, their sicknesses will spread, and those of you who aren't dead will become their slaves. And not just your people. The Penobscot, the Kennebec, the Pennacook, the Massachusett, the Iroquois, the Cherokee, the Shoshone, the Chumash…all gone! I can see them now…shivering and dying of smallpox, crammed into stockades, hunted down as vermin, forever dispossessed of their land and their identity. I've seen it _all._" The thing that had been Little Bear widened his horrific grin even further, and he slowly raised his right arm and twisted his fingers with audible pops and groans to point at Round Flower. "And there's nothing you can do about it. What do you think of that, everyone? What do you think of _that_? Ahhhh-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaa!"

"Silence, demon!" shouted the man carving the arrowheads. Bellowing a war whoop, he seized a finished arrowhead, rushed toward the chortling boy-thing, and plunged it into his throat. Muddy reddish blood with the consistency of tree sap poured through his clenched fingers.

It was all Round Flower could do to keep herself from vomiting, and she heard someone behind her do just that.

The boy-thing gibbered and keened briefly as he clawed at the man's arm, but soon fell silent as the man removed the arrowhead from the slash in his throat, and collapsed to the ground again. The man then turned toward Round Flower with a bitter scowl. "This is your doing. This…demon was summoned by you."

"I…I…" Round Flower stammered. "I didn't know it would turn out like this. I just wanted my son back… B-but I'm fighting evil now! I can make a difference for our people!"

"How so?" replied her father. "That was not Little Bear; that was a demon you summoned that assumed his form! And it called for our downfall at the hands of the palefaces!

"She's in league with the palefaces!" shouted someone. "She's wearing their clothes!"

"No," said the Chief, striding through the crowd to stand before Round Flower. "You have been touched by the Wendigo. Your recent losses have been quite tragic, but you let yourself give into unspeakable desire. Now I fear you may bring his curse upon the rest of us."

"What can I do now?"

"I'm sorry to say that you shall have to leave our village and never return. You have brought the Wendigo's curse upon yourself; you shall not bring it upon us."

Somewhere back in the woods where she felt she could do no more damage, the young woman finally could run no more, and just lay there weeping after her legs gave out.

"How could this happen?" she sobbed. "_Why_ did this happen? I wanted my son back, not a…demon…"

"Like your father reminded you," a certain high, thin voice echoed in her head, "Matters of death are the domain of the gods." Round Flower glanced upward to see the strange, ghostly white creature materialize on a nearby log. "With anyone else attempting such things, the results will always be…less than perfect. And I am not a god, I should tell you now. I can _remove_ the soul from the body, but I'm afraid I can't put it back."

Round Flower's jaw dropped. That ghostly white coat. Its soft, high voice, seducing her and awakening unspeakable desires in her. And those piercing, depthless red eyes. How could she not have suspected? "I should have known," she breathed, reaching for her bow. "You're the Wendigo! You're an enemy of my people, not an ally!" But before she could even reach for an arrow, Qubeg had vanished in a white flash. It then appeared directly before her.

"As I understand your people's legends, I can see how you might believe that. But this 'Wendigo' you speak of is often not so much born…as _created_. Allow me to demonstrate." It then quickly darted up Round Flower's stomach like a squirrel up a tree and pressed a forepaw on her Spirit Stone—which she suddenly noticed had lost its bright purple sheen and was starting to turn black.

It felt like a spear was being thrust through her chest. She didn't want to show any signs of weakness before this little white demon, but at the moment, she could do nothing but scream, fall to the forest floor, and arch her back.

When the pain had mercifully dissipated, she opened her eyes to see Qubeg still sitting there atop her now prone form. "When you agreed to become a Magical Warrior, I removed your spirit from your body and placed it into this stone. I…and the rest of _my_ people, found it a more convenient way for you to avoid death during your battles and to heal yourselves and use other magic. Some would say you are no longer human."

Round Flower wanted to break into a good, healthy piercing scream, but, still on her back reeling from that bolt of horrific pain through her body, all she could do was tremble and utter a choked groan.

"Some might say that it's _you_ who are now the 'Wendigo'. You were consumed by grief—not an unusual thing, really—but also by a desire you should have realized was simply unattainable."

"But you raised Little Bear, not me…"

"Only by your wish. You could have simply said 'no'," Qubeg replied, that same unchanging, stupid yet smart bobcat smile upon its face. "And now you shall have plenty of allies in your fight, originating from the burial ground…" It quickly glanced at her darkening Spirit Stone. "The palefaces call them 'Familiars'. Your people might call them demons. But to my people, they're all part of our business."

Round Flower tried to reach out and grab the creature, but she could only raise her arm a few inches before it collapsed back to the dirt. "You…you told me the Witches and demons are in league with the palefaces…"

"Some are, but they aren't controlled by them as a whole. They aren't 'evil' really; most of them just want to live a normal life as your people do. They grow food, trade goods, raise families, and try to instill the best values of their cultures as much as your people and others like them do. And occasionally they also fight wars over territory and treasure. However, their countries are much more crowded than this land. Some of their cities literally have populations approaching a million people. Food and even clean water are often hard to come by, and sickness is rampant there—the very same sicknesses that are now ravaging your people and others like them." Qubeg stared up at the darkening sky. "Some of them have come to this land to worship their god—or their interpretation of their god—in their own way. Some have come for less noble purposes, but possibly more honest ones—simply to make money. And some simply wanted to escape. They think they have found an unspoiled new world where want and sickness won't follow them. Unfortunately for them, with their growing numbers in this land, they will soon enough find that one cannot merely run from their old demons, but turn and fight them…as I'm sure you well know. Their demons—metaphorical ones in this case-have already followed them here…and already I and my associates have made agreements with several of them." Qubeg turned back toward Round Flower. "I can see your time is running short. I can't say I'm not somewhat disappointed in that you were only able to slay one Witch—and a weak one at that—and you couldn't slay your first Demon. But I do know you were rather weakened by your grief. But you can take one final comfort in knowing that you won't die without serving a very important purpose."

Its gaze returned to the sky again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to in the land of the rising sun. Farewell, _Puella_ Wendigo." And with that, Qubeg's form faded into nothing.

Tears spilled from Round Flower's eyes as her face crumpled for one last time. "I…I'm such a fool…" she said.

As the last rays of twilight faded over the central Maine woods, a harsh, unearthly scream smashed through the gloaming air, soon melting away into something between a sob and a cackle. It interrupted a business deal between an Englishman recently arrived from Massachusetts (it was getting too crowded down there) and a French fur trader who had spent several years in this region. He thought he knew these lovely, dark and deep woods somewhat well by this time, but every once in a while he was reminded that this was a new, strange world indeed.

"_Alors!_" gasped the Englishman in the fur trader's language. "What on earth was that noise?"

"That…that was just the loons to the south," the trader answered. "Sometimes the wind can carry the sound. It is strange."

After the two had completed their trade, and the Englishman had gone his separate way, the trader visibly shuddered and crossed himself.

_A/N: Gen "Urobutcher" Urobochi recently claimed Stephen King was one of his main influences, and he (King) certainly is for me. _Pet Sematary _was the first King novel I read, and since I saw a few parallels between it and _PMMM_, I thought it might be interesting to combine the two._

_I didn't go all out, but I did do some homework for this story. Metacom was a real-life sachem of the Narragansett tribe who led an Indian uprising in New England from 1675 to 1678. He was nicknamed "King Philip" by the English. Also, the reason Round Flower didn't compare "Qubeg" to a housecat was because Native Americans didn't keep domestic cats. They did obviously know about cougars, bobcats, lynxes, etc._

_I know some of you are likely thinking that I should've put this in the crossover section but, heh, call me an egomaniac, but obviously that section doesn't get nearly the amount of traffic that the main pages do. As for the King section, I thought that probably more _Madoka_ fans have read _Pet Sematary_ than vice versa, especially outside Japan. In short, I thought my story would get more attention here than there._

_But anyway, I'd like to give thanks to Danny Barefoot for his _A History of Magic_ (especially the chapter on Sacagawea, of course; I owe the term "Spirit Stone" to this), as well as ncfan for her beautifully poignant _Those Rainy Nights_ which honestly helped plant the seed for this venture, especially the scene of grief at the beginning (seed…grief…oh dear)._

_More to come; stay tuned. Don't know how soon it'll be though; this chapter was gut-wrenching for me to write._


	2. Chapter 2

_I own nothing. Who really "owns" anything, anyway?_

_Bangor, Maine – 1884_

Pleasantview Cemetery did not have much of a view, nor was it a particularly pleasant place. Of course, the landscapers had done what they could; adding rolling knolls, ponds and trees at artfully spaced locations to create an Arcadian, almost parklike atmosphere. But then one noticed the ubiquitous headstones ranging from simple granite slabs, some tilted at wild angles with numerous frost heaves, to ostentatious Greco-Roman mausoleums, and then one remembered why they had come. Like in a city park, one could afford to sit and watch the clouds roll by and contemplate the mysteries of life (and death) in here; unlike in a city park, one usually did not contemplate the more pleasant mysteries while in here.

Dolores Chastain sat by the cloying piles of flowers decorating her baby daughter's new grave, watching the iceman's cart plod down Mason Street. The burial service had ended some fifteen or even twenty minutes ago, but she was in no hurry to leave. That was part of the problem, it seemed. Everyone was in too much of a hurry these days. You could be in San Francisco in about five days by train, and even London in about the same amount of time by steamship. If you didn't have that time or money, you could use the new telephone and hear someone's voice instantly, from Augusta or Boston or even Tokyo.

And yet, despite all the rosy words in _Harper's Weekly_ or _Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper_ about how all this technology would vastly improve everyone's lives, the Grim Reaper continued to hang over the most vulnerable members of humanity like a vulture. A person might be able to get across the Atlantic in five days, but too many babies weren't guaranteed even that amount of time. Her little Matilda hadn't even gotten an hour after a breach birth and tangling in her own umbilical cord.

At the other end of this spectrum, Dolores' husband had been a victim as a soldier in the war of Progress, falling in the line of duty as a Maine Central Railroad engineer. Oh, but he had died a hero's death, her family and friends had reminded her. While the fireman had jumped from the engine as soon as they saw the rear lights of the stalled caboose, he had stayed on and held the brake as hard as he could, saving the passengers of the _Portland Flyer_ at his own expense. But he had been a victim nonetheless, just as passengers killed in less fortunate train accidents were victims, just as those mangled or killed in the sweatshop mills and coal mines were victims. Despite the beatification of the Civil War dead, no one would say war was a wonderful thing. In the war of Progress, however, the casualties were simply mourned in private by their family and friends, then swept under the rug.

_It isn't right_, Dolores thought. _Some people have lived for almost a century. With all this talk about humanity being more improved than ever before, some of us aren't even given a chance to start living. How is it that the same technology which took Norman was unable to save Matilda? If only I could have the chance…I'd never let _anything _happen to her…_

_There is…one way_, a high, thin voice piped inside her head. _Greater than any technology ever dreamed of._

Dolores' mouth bent against the recent frown lines and tear stains on her face as she smiled slightly. "What is it?" she breathed.

_Have you ever been to Ludlow?_ , the voice asked.

She paused to think. "My brother-in-law has a farm there. And of course we pass through there on the way to Ellsworth or Bar Harbor."

_There is…something there, which I think may answer all your questions. But first you shall need a shovel…_

_Ludlow, Maine—1943_

There were three knocks at Bill Baterman's front door. His stomach was tied up in triple granny knots and his hands were already trembling as he made his way there from his easy chair. It was still too early for the mail, so he had an idea what this was all about. He had been deeply dreading this moment ever since his son Timmy had received his marching orders from Uncle Sam five months ago. But now that he could see it coming, like a condemned man, he saw no alternate route, and so he did just what condemned man would do—just keep walking.

The Western Union agent stood on Bill's front stoop with a shy yet solemn gaze straight into his soul. He handed Bill an envelope lined in black. "Telegram from the U.S. Army."

_D91 25=LONDON UK JUL 17_

_BILL BATERMAN=_

_RR9 PEDERSEN ROAD LUDLOW ME=_

_:IT IS WITH DEEPEST REGRET THAT WE REPORT THAT WE REPORT THE LOSS OF YOUR SON PVT TIM BATERMAN STOP KIA CHARGING GERMAN MACHINE GUN NEST OUTSIDE ROME STOP WILL BE CONSIDERED FOR SILVER STAR POSTHUMOUSLY STOP WILL BE SHIPPED HOME AND BURIED W FULL MILITARY HONORS END=_

_ LT PHILIP NIEDERMEYER US ARMY HQ EUROPEAN THEATER OF OPERATIONS LONDON UK_

Once again, Bill felt his wife, dead for 10 years now along with their second child, slipping away from him like air from a balloon. Oh, but Timmy would be remembered as a hero, everyone would remind him. He'd get little American flags at his grave, his name added to the ever-growing list on the monument on the town green, and of course he'd be presented with a shiny new medal at his son's upcoming funeral. A medal that the recipient obviously wouldn't be able to wear.

But take away all that red, white and blue pomp and circumstance, and Timmy was just another boy dead long before his time, as dead as a kid playing in the street and hit by a truck, and as dead as his wife and their second son. Was that right?

Bill felt a slight sting on his right cheek and thought he heard something like a woman's cackling off in the distance. But that was probably just the loons down south around Prospect. The sound could carry. It was funny.

_There is…something you can do_, a high, thin voice whispered inside his head. But that voice didn't need to elaborate. He knew about that place in the woods off Route 15. His grandfather had told him about that place and its secrets, and his great-grandfather had told him and so on, going back who knew how long, possibly back to when the Indians still ruled this land. Men and towns grew their secrets…and tended them well. Yes, there was indeed something he could do.

Sam Haskell, the telegram agent, didn't know how many of these dreadful messages he had had to deliver in the year and a half that America had been involved in this war, but he guessed that "too many" would be a good enough answer. He had seen everyone from pretty young fiancées to toothless old grandparents break down in unstoppable tears. Even the occasional banshee screaming fit he could handle. But poor old Bill Baterman…he had never seen anything quite like it.

At first Bill's face eyes widened and his cheeks tensed up as if he'd been slapped. Then the left corner of his mouth began twitching and didn't stop for as long as he was there at his front stoop. Bill's eyes stared directly forward but seemed to be focused on the horizon. Was this what the returning servicemen were calling "the thousand-yard stare"? And then his lips turned upward in a smile that held a secret men were not meant to know. His mouth continued twitching.

Sam walked quickly back to his car and drove home, instead of back to the office. Once there, he took a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle, slotted a sheet into his typewriter, and began typing.

_Dear Mr. Henshaw,_

_It is with the deepest regret that I announce my resignation…_

_1984_

"Annnd that was Cyndi Lauper, with her latest single 'Time After Time'. Hard to believe that's the same gal who said girls just wanna have fun, eh? Not exactly a feel-good ditty if you asked me. Welp, either way, unless Casey Kasem's been lying to me—and he usually doesn't—that's _Billboard_'s latest Number One! Now here's some more of those lovable lads from Down Undah reminding us to make love, not war, and to come get a shrimp off the bah-bie; it's Men at Work with 'It's a Mistake', and that's no mistake!"

Irwin Goldman turned down the car radio. He was 59 now and hadn't had much use for popular music since Truman was President. That new "music video" cable TV channel had only waxed the skids; nowadays all self-proclaimed musicians had to do to get famous was prance around in front of the cameras in earrings and makeup and bang, they were instant millionaires with their own jet airplanes. Just money for nothing, checks for free.

But his granddaughter Eileen "Ellie" Creed ate it up, and right now he and Dory only wanted her to regain some semblance of normalcy. (Also, the slow poignant tone of that last song seemed rather fitting for the current circumstances.) Of course, regaining normalcy would be far, _far_ easier said than done for Ellie at this point. He shuddered to think how he would have weathered losing so many loved ones in less than two weeks, and at age six. He supposed he might now be a lifelong patient of some sanitarium. Ellie had had to spend another day under observation for possible shock, on top of her near-nervous breakdown (bullshit; it _was_ a full-blown nervous breakdown, did you really think a six-year-old couldn't have a nervous breakdown?). But ever since they had flown back to Maine for the double funeral and burial of her parents, the little girl had been…well, functional at least. She still ate three meals a day. She was responsive to others. But…those were about the only times she ever talked. And her face… She didn't have the distant, intense, wide-eyed gaze of some that "Vietnam syndrome", but she almost always seemed to be looking at the ground with a completely neutral expression. She hadn't even cried at the services. It was like something had died inside her along with the rest of her immediate family.

So if the Top 40 radio Ellie so enjoyed might bring back part of her normal self (or least let her _cry_ again), then she could listen to it and watch the MTV all she wanted. But Irwin had turned the radio off because they were nearing their final stop for the day before heading back to Bangor International Airport and Chicago. Irwin was surprised at first that she would to visit what had until last week been her house. So much blood had been spilled on that doorstep; so many bad memories hung over that old Cape Cod in a black, smoky cloud. The circumstances of the deaths only turned things from miserable to outright horrifying; Louis Creed had been brutally stabbed all over his body, and then…ugghh, he didn't like to think about it. Meanwhile Rachel had traveled back to Chicago with her parents after Gage's funeral, but then for some reason he was still trying to fathom, had made a marathon dash back to Maine after she and Ellie had suddenly had strange ideas that something bad was about to happen to Louis. She was run down on or about that evening by another one of those damned fertilizer trucks running up and down this damned road; the same fate that had met their youngest, Gage, not two weeks ago. For some reason her hair and clothes had been caked with dirt. Police were still trying to determine if there was some kind of link between the two deaths. Irwin himself could not begin to guess at any motive, or why a murderer would stab one victim and then push the next in front of a truck. Of course, he was an investment banker, not a homicide detective.

He had told Ellie that her parents had simply been killed in a car crash on their way back to the airport.

What the hell had been going on? The poor girl had been screaming about what sounded like omens and about how her daddy had just wanted them gone; that something very bad was about to happen; eventually saying it was "too late" before she was put under sedation. Was there actually some truth to all that talk about clairvoyance and ESP? And dammit, was there some kind of curse in this area? The family hadn't been here for a year, when things just went full-on Job for the Creeds. Suddenly Irwin desperately wanted to be back in Chicago, or even in, say, Japan; just anywhere other than this poisoned corner of the world.

But his dear, patient Dory, the one who had fully opened up to Louis in the wake of Gage's death and convinced Irwin to do the same, she had reminded him that not all of Ellie's memories of Ludlow were doom and gloom. There had also been moments of childhood laughter and gaiety, playing in the woods, sledding in the winter, doing other things that one didn't often get the chance to in the big city. And to top it off, this was where she had started kindergarten. But most importantly, her last memories of her parents and brother were here at this house. So he could see why she wanted to spend a few last minutes there before bidding farewell to Maine and returning to the Midwest.

Two police cars were still stationed at the house; one in the driveway and one on the street in front. As Irwin, Dory and Ellie climbed out of the rented Ford Fairmont, an Orinco fertilizer truck blasted past with an irritated blare of its horn. The respective drivers that had killed Irwin's grandson and daughter had since been fired, had their licenses suspended, and were out on bail, but obviously no court in the world would convict a truck. For all he knew, that could've been one of the fatal trucks rolling by just now, mocking them.

"I'd like to be alone for a bit, if that's okay," Ellie told them as they tried to follow her.

"Sweetheart, are you sure? You shouldn't bother the policemen," Dory said.

"I know I'm not allowed to cross the yellow tape," Ellie replied. "But I just want to go in the backyard for a little while. I'll be back soon." And she began walking alongside the house toward her old yard, taking care to avoid the police tape.

"Irwin, honey, shouldn't we follow her?" Dory protested.

Irwin sighed. "I'd like to, but…Lord knows I wanted time alone at my father's grave after he died. And whatever's going on inside her head now, I just don't know if I can do any good at this point. I tried with her father, and look how that worked out." He held his wife's hand and gazed up at the clear late May sky. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit concerned about her now, but if being so quiet and solitary is how she copes, then what can we do?" He tried to put on a soothing smile. "She's stronger than you think, dear. On the way over here I was thinking that if all this had happened to me when I was her age, I'd be lying and drooling in some nuthouse bed with the front third of my brain gone. For her to have gone to the services with no complaint, and then to come back to the place where all this shit began, I think she'll be her old self again inside of a week." _At least, I sure hope so. Those eyes…_

The grasshoppers and cicadas were beginning their ever-present summertime whir as Ellie Creed made her way up the narrow path leading from her old backyard to the Pet Sematary. In a brief burst of light, she changed into her blue-and-white Magical Girl outfit, which reminded her of Alice's dress in the _Wonderland_ books. Her navy blue Soul Gem wasn't quite as bright as when she had first gotten it, but she was still charged with determination. She knew her parents hadn't really died in a car crash. Kyubey had told her everything; about the evil Witch lurking in the woods behind the Pet Sematary who had kissed her brother and led him into the road; how she'd kissed her daddy and driven him crazy; how she'd then done the same with her mommy when she flew back here to stop things. The weird white kitty hadn't told her what exactly this all had to do with the Pet Sematary, but when he said he could bring back her parents and even Gage for her, she couldn't say no, despite Paxcow's whispered pleas. But what did he know? Paxcow had said he could only warn but not interfere, and look how that had worked out.

She had been a little worried at first, when Kyubey had told her she would actually to _fight_ this Witch if she wanted her family back. She had been in some pretty nasty arguments with her parents, Gage and some of her schoolmates, but never an actual fight. She had actual magical powers now (and Kyubey said he'd sensed a lot of power in her), but what if this Witch decided to get dirty and start punching or kicking? Punches _hurt_, after all. Would she need bandaids after this, or perhaps even a stiff, itchy cast for a broken leg or arm? Normy Swain in school had broken his arm last winter, and never stopped talking how sometimes it got so itchy and sore that he wished he could just saw his arm off. (He'd had to spend the rest of the afternoon in Time Out after saying that.) But then she remembered the rage boiling inside her, driving her up the trail. This Witch had killed her family, and Kyubey had told her it had killed many other people before. She wouldn't allow it.

And she desperately wanted to see her family again, but she would only let the tears come later. Crying was a sign of weakness, Kyubey had told her. If she wanted to win this fight, she would have to focus on her burning anger and _hate_ toward her family's murderess. She went to Sunday School; surely she remembered that Bible verse about an eye for an eye, right? (Actually, she didn't think they had covered that one yet, but she had heard about it at recess from Rebecca Carmody; she was _always_ talking about the Bible.) But yes, Ellie did know about that one verse…and she agreed with it.

"Are you ready for your big fight, Ellie?" Kyubey asked, emerging from the underbrush beside the trail. "Rundeblumchen is quite powerful, but I think I can sense even more power in you." Yes, quite a bit. Truly that old Micmac burial ground back in the woods and its current…"resident" had been one of the Incubators' most successful "generators" in their time on this planet. Rundeblumchen's Familiars were always rather hungry of course (as was she), but as long as they drew in new contractees, that was all that mattered. And Kyubey's superiors would be quite pleased with this latest catch. It was rather unusual for such a young girl to make a contract—but not unknown. Yet it could feel her energy pulsing hot against its sensors even now, as they continued toward her destiny. Not even Joan of Arc, the self-proclaimed Handmaiden of the Lord, had felt this strong.

"I'm not afraid of anything anymore!" Ellie snarled, drawing out her child-proportioned sword. "An eye for an eye!"

"Then I wish you the best of luck," Kyubey said. "Now at some points you may hear some funny sounds, but they're just loons, and maybe the cicadas too. The wind can carry the sound around. It's funny."

_A/N: The name Dolores comes from the Spanish word for "sorrows", or _"misery". _Go back to that part of the story and look at the name again, then see me after class. _"_Rundeblumchen_" _is German for "little round flower". I don't think it's a real name; so just call it poetic license._

_And the name "Madoka" can be written with the kanji for "circle" and "flower"._


	3. Chapter 3

"_They say the meek shall inherit the earth…"_

-The Police, "Walking In Your Footsteps"

The previous year, President Ronald Reagan had restated America's military position as a moral imperative in his "Evil Empire" speech on the Soviet Union. Previous arms limitations talks be damned, numbers of missiles were brought to their highest levels in two decades, and on both sides of the Iron Curtain, ranks of men kept their eyes on radar screens awaiting the unthinkable. With the Soviets' continuing occupation of Afghanistan and last year's shootdown of a Korean jet traveling from New York, and America's invasion of Grenada and under-the-radar support for anti-Communist guerillas in Central America, both ranks of men had reason to fear the worst.

But even with all the latest radar and satellite technology at their command, on May 27, 1984 not one of both worlds' finest could claim to see a bright pink flash, somewhat reminiscent of a meteor, making its way toward America's northeastern corner. Perhaps this was because they were awaiting approaching MiGs, missiles, or four horsemen; for this pink flash represented Hope.

"Don't worry," the pink form whispered softly. "You don't have to worry anymore…Round Flower…Dolores Chastain…Bill Baterman…Ellie Creed… You shall all be with your loved ones soon."

Although the flash went undetected by the Cold War's most advanced electronics, it did not go unseen.

In the driveway of Ludlow Middle School, 14-year-old Marie Hansen stood with her bag and chattering classmates, ready to get on the bus to Boston's Logan Airport and begin her class trip to Paris. She wished she could feel as bubbly and charged up as her friends did, but she couldn't stop thinking about her best friend, Charlotte Perkins. This trip had been Charlotte's idea, and she had organized the first fundraising efforts. Her classmates had joked that the main reason she wanted to go to France was because she couldn't get enough French cuisine, especially cheese. And while she certainly had been keenly looking forward to a fine slice of Brie or Camembert at the source, she also shared many a romantic young girl's dreams of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and Jim Morrison's grave. Perhaps Mike Terravella would confess to her at _Le Tour_ itself. No, that probably never actually happened in real life…but who knew?

Of course, no one was laughing when she was admitted to Eastern Maine Medical Center for two weeks…which stretched into a month…which stretched into two months…which just kept on going. And no one in Ms. DeBlois' French class was laughing at anything when it was announced that Charlotte's cancer was likely terminal. And to add insult to injury, the chemotherapy had rendered her unable to digest dairy products. She wouldn't even be able to have one more éclair or even some cheese.

That had been just over a month ago. Charlotte spent the next last two weeks of her life softly weeping, hardly ever speaking, and gazing at the ceiling with a vacant stare that made one wonder if her soul hadn't already left her body. Marie's class decided to go forward with the trip even after Charlotte's death; Charlotte herself had told them she didn't want all their efforts and money to be for nothing. Plus they already had all the plane tickets and hotel reservations. Still, Marie couldn't get that empty, defeated stare out of her mind. This trip just couldn't seem complete to her.

Suddenly a soft, warm female voice pulled her out of her sad reverie. It seemed to come from slightly above her head. _It'll be all right. Charlotte wanted it this way, right? You'll have lots of fun on this trip, really._ Marie glanced upward and—just for a second—saw Charlotte's face in the reflections in the bus windows, her dark pink hair restored to her head. Next to her was a smiling Asian-featured girl with pigtailed hair of a lighter pink shade. Charlotte smiled and winked.

And maybe it was just a warm early-summer breeze, but then Marie felt what seemed like an ethereal hug around her shoulders. She had never given a whole lot of thought to the supernatural and notions of life after death (even in the wake of her friend's passing), but either way, none of those petty, squabbling details seemed to matter much right now. Charlotte was all right, and she was going to have a great time in Paris.

"Yeah," she said, blinking back light tears. "It will be all right."

"Hey, who're you talking to?" asked her friend, Betsy Gauthier.

"Oh… n-no one," Marie replied. "I just thought I heard someone talking to me, but it was probably just the wind. It can sound funny sometimes."

_Welp, I dunno how many of you liked that, but this story still meant a lot to me, and it felt good to get it out of my system. Like I said, I thought _Madoka _and _Pet Sematary_ have some important themes in common (Faustian bargains, undeath, how despair can beget despair), so I thought the two stories might go well together. And _Pet Sematary _is also rather important to me personally since I would've been about the age of the Creed family's baby son when the story took place around top of that, around that time my parents and I also moved to New England…_

_Again, I'd like to dedicate this story to ncfan and Danny Barefoot for helping inspire me and lending some atmospheric and thematic elements. Also to Gen "Urobutcher" Urobochi, his and my mentor Stephen King, _PMMM_'s traumatized seiyuu cast (you may've heard Urobochi and co. didn't tell them how grimdark things would get)…and the great State of Maine. If the zombies, vampires, killer clowns and rabid dogs don't get you, then the bears, angry moose, mosquitoes and other rabid critters surely will. Make your summer vacation plans today! Oh, and of course, to those of you who read and (ahem) reviewed._


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